Messenger Bags and Murder (A Haley Randolph Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  Since we’d exhausted all the places we should have been able to find a terrific handbag, we moved through the open-air shopping center past the stores, restaurants, and office spaces toward the parking garage. I had on a fabulous black business suit, since I was on my lunch hour, and Marcie had taken the day off from her job at a bank downtown so she had on jeans, a sweater, and a blazer. We looked great—perfect for a November afternoon.

  “What the heck is wrong with all the designers?” I asked, as we passed one of the boutiques we’d already checked out. “All they have to do is design handbags. That’s it. And I haven’t seen one decent bag in months.”

  “It hasn’t been months,” Marcie pointed out. “Only a few weeks.”

  She was right, of course. Marcie was almost always right.

  I was in no mood.

  “You’ve been kind of crabby lately,” Marcie said, as only a BFF can. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I insisted.

  Marcie gave me a we’re-best-friends look which was usually comforting, but not today. My life had been a roller coaster for a while now, but I’d been doing okay with it. I had a great job as an event planner at L.A. Affairs and … and …and—wait. Hang on. Was that the only good thing I had going?

  Oh my God. It was.

  I still had my will-this-nightmare-ever-end part-time sales clerk job at the how-the-heck-does-this-crappy-place-stay-in-business Holt’s Department Store. My mom was driving me crazy—no, really, crazier than usual—over prep for her upcoming Thanksgiving dinner that I was expected to attend. I’d broken up with my hot, handsome, fabulous official boyfriend Ty Cameron. I was staring down the barrel of the single girl’s Bermuda Triangle of holidays—Christmas, New Years, and Valentine’s Day—and lately it seemed that if civilization were dying, men would rather let it go than date me.

  So was it too much to ask that a designer somewhere come up with a fabulous new handbag that would soothe my worries, boost my spirits, and keep me going until things turned around?

  Apparently, it was.

  “If you want to talk, I’ll be home late tonight,” Marcie said. “I’m having dinner with Beau.”

  Oh, yeah, and Marcie had a new boyfriend—which I’m really happy about. Really.

  “Have fun,” I said, which I totally meant.

  Marcie had kissed her share of frogs, and while Beau might not be her prince, he was at least a really nice guy, good looking with a great job, and liked to go places and do things with her—which was why I was really happy for her. Really.

  We waved good-bye and Marcie continued on toward the parking garage. I headed the other way through the Galleria and crossed the busy Sepulveda and Ventura intersection to the building that housed L.A. Affairs, an event planning company to the stars—and everyone else who mattered in Hollywood and Los Angeles. It was my job to execute fabulous parties for people who had more money than they knew what to do with so they spent it on extravagant, outrageous, mine-is-better-than-yours events, then left it up to me to, somehow, pull it off.

  I took the elevator up to the L.A. Affairs office on the third floor and walked inside. A florist on our approved list—who wanted us to keep booking them for events—had decorated the lobby with pumpkins, corn stalks, and mum plants.

  Mindy, our receptionist, was at her post. She was somewhere in her forties, with a waistline that attested to her total commitment to the Food Network, and blonde hair she’s sprayed into the shape of a mushroom.

  If it’s true that we learn from our mistakes, Mindy will soon be a genius.

  “Are you ready to party?” Mindy exclaimed.

  She’s supposed to chant that ridiculous slogan to clients, yet for some unknown reason I was continually bombarded with it.

  “I work here,” I told her, for about the zillionth time. “Okay? I’m an employee. Here. You don’t have to keep saying that to me.”

  Mindy made a pouty face and shook her head. “Oh, dear, someone is having a bad day.”

  I walked away.

  Just past the cube farm and the client interview rooms I turned down the hallway where the offices, supply room, conference rooms, and breakroom were located. I desperately needed to hit the snack cabinet. I was long overdue for a chocolate fix, and the mocha frappuccino—the most fabulous drink in the world—that I’d gotten after lunch at Starbucks—the most fabulous place in the world—had worn off.

  I ducked into my private office—a great space with neutral furniture and splashes of blue and yellow, and a huge window with a view of the Galleria—and was about to drop my handbag into my desk drawer when my cell phone rang. It was Mom.

  Oh crap.

  “Good news,” she announced when I answered.

  Mom’s news was seldom good—for me, anyway.

  “I’ve figured out how to remedy my seating chart problem,” she said

  Mom said it as if she’d just hammered out a peace treaty in the Middle East, and while she did wish for world peace—she was, after all, a former beauty queen—I’m not sure she was even aware there were problems in that region of the world.

  Really, how could she know if it wasn’t covered in Vogue?

  “Oh?” I murmured, as I dropped into my desk chair.

  “I’ve been quite concerned about your sister lately,” Mom said.

  To the untrained observer, it appeared that Mom’s seating chart and her concerns for my sister weren’t related. I knew the connection would be revealed—as long as I was patient enough to wait.

  I’m not usually that patient.

  “She hasn’t been herself since she broke up with Lars,” Mom said.

  I had no idea who Lars was.

  My sister was a little younger than me. She attended UCLA, did some modeling, and was a near perfect genetic copy of our mother.

  I wasn’t.

  “So,” Mom said, “I’m going to find a dinner companion for your sister on Thanksgiving.”

  I lurched forward in my chair. She was going to—what?

  “That way she won’t be lonely and sad,” Mom said.

  She was going to set up my sister with a blind date?

  “Someone from a good family, of course,” Mom said. “Young and handsome, well educated.”

  What about me? She knew I’d broken up with Ty.

  “Which will also solve my seating chart problem,” Mom said.

  No way did I want my mother to set me up with somebody—but that’s not the point.

  “I’m calling around now to see who’s eligible,” Mom said. “I’ll let you know.”

  She hung up. I jabbed the red button on my cell phone and tossed it into my handbag.

  Oh my God, I couldn’t believe this. My life was locked in a death spiral and this was what Mom wanted to do?

  The office phone on my desk rang. It was Mindy.

  “Hello? Hello? Haley?” she asked, when I picked up.

  I drew a quick breath, trying to calm myself.

  “Yes, Mindy?”

  “Oh, yes, hello. I’d like to speak to Haley,” Mindy said.

  Good grief.

  “I’m Haley,” I said.

  “Oh, jiminy, so you are,” Mindy said and giggled. “So, anyway, there’s a Mr. Douglas in the office—no, he’s on the phone. Yes, he’s on the phone, holding. He wants to come by and see you right now.”

  A man wanted an appointment? In person? Immediately?

  That could only mean one thing—he wanted to plan a surprise party for his wife or girlfriend. Somebody he desperately loved, thought the world of, wanted to impress and flatter, and shower with special moments.

  No way.

  “Tell him to forget it,” I barked, and hung up.

  Two people had told me today that I was in a crappy mood. Well, screw them.

  I grabbed my handbag and an event portfolio and left.

  * * *

  Ready for a hot guy and some romance?

  Chapter One of The Last Bride in Texas

  Texas, 1882
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  Of all the times for the bank to get robbed.

  Connor Wade shook his head in disgust as he gazed out the window of the Cattleman’s Cafe. He’d just ridden into this town, just sat down to his first hot meal in weeks, and this had to happen.

  Across the street in front of the bank, one would-be robber hunkered down behind a water trough while another took cover inside the bank doorway, both with pistols blazing.

  Connor scraped the last bite of potatoes from his plate and leaned closer to the window. To his right, just down the street, the sheriff returned fire from behind a freight wagon.

  “Damn fools...” Connor muttered, pushing the plate aside and biting into his apple pie.

  These robbers must have been green as new-mowed hay. Noon was the worst time to hit a bank. They’d left their horses too far away. And they’d picked a bank within sight of the sheriff’s office.

  Connor mumbled another curse. Without a doubt, the worst planned robbery he’d ever seen. And he’d seen his share of robberies.

  More than his share, really.

  Connor brought his coffee cup to his lips, then stared into it. Empty.

  “Excuse me?” he called.

  The woman who, judging from the size of her waist, owned the cafe huddled with four other diners around the front door, watching the commotion through the glass window. Connor looked around. He was the only one still eating.

  And the only one who wanted more coffee, it seemed.

  “Ma’am?” he called, raising his cup. “Could I get more coffee over here?”

  Noses pressed against the glass window, whispering and pointing, they ignored him.

  “Ma’am? Excuse me?” he called again.

  No response.

  “Dammit...”

  All he wanted was a cup of coffee to finish off his pie. Was that asking too much?

  Connor frowned at the crowd gawking out the window. Apparently, it was.

  Connor dropped his cup on the table with a thud, dragged the napkin across his mouth and pushed to his feet.

  “Stand aside,” he called, crossing the cafe.

  The two men and three women gathered at the door looked back at him. One of the men had gone white, and two of the women looked like they might faint.

  Connor leaned down and peered out the window. The two robbers, their attention focused on the sheriff, weren’t likely to notice him from this angle. Connor doubted they were smart enough to keep watch.

  Around the corner in the alley, out of the sheriff’s line of sight, Connor saw their horses. Three of them. That meant another robber was still inside the bank. One more robber the sheriff probably didn’t know about.

  Connor pulled his black Stetson hat lower on his forehead and opened the door.

  “You can’t go out there, mister!” one of the men exclaimed. “There’s a shoot-out a-going on!”

  Connor looked back over his shoulder. “Fill up my coffee cup while I’m gone, will you?”

  He stepped onto the boardwalk. Behind him, the door slammed shut.

  The midday sunlight reflected off the glass storefronts lining both sides of the dusty street. Shots rang out. Horses tethered to the hitching posts tossed their heads and pawed the ground. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air.

  Connor held his position outside the cafe. The bank was across the street, two doors off to his right. The sheriff, behind the freight wagon, was farther down the street. Their attention fixed on the sheriff, the robbers didn’t see Connor.

  He drew his Colt .45, took aim and squeezed off a shot. The bullet drilled the hand of the robber leaning out the bank’s doorway. The gun flew from his hand. Connor put another shot into his shoulder, sending him sprawling across the boardwalk.

  Connor fired again. This shot buried into the thigh of the robber hiding behind the water trough. He yelped, dropped his gun, grabbed his leg and fell sideways.

  Echoes of the gunshots bounced off the wooden buildings along Main Street. A numb silence fell over the town.

  Connor didn’t move. Both men were down, but it wasn’t over yet. He stood his ground, arm extended, pistol trained on the entrance of the bank. Waiting.

  From the corner of his eye, Connor saw the sheriff lower his rifle and move out from behind the freight wagon.

  A mistake.

  The third robber burst out of the bank. Connor adjusted his aim, ready to squeeze off another shot.

  Instead, he froze. The robber had a hostage.

  “Damn...” Connor muttered.

  A woman. Young. Dark skirt, white blouse, pink shawl around her shoulders, a little hat set in her brown hair. The robber wrapped his left arm across her shoulders, holding her in front of him, pressing her back against his chest. The barrel of his pistol prodded her temple.

  This bandit looked like the other two Connor had already shot. Not much more than a kid, dressed in dusty clothes and a battered hat. Young and stupid, but dangerous.

  The robber focused his attention on the sheriff, unaware that it was Connor who’d shot the other two members of the gang.

  “I’ll kill her!” he screamed.

  The man inched backward down the boardwalk toward the horses waiting in the alley. To Connor’s surprise, the woman stayed calm. No crying or sniveling. She didn’t even tremble.

  Raising his pistol, Connor took careful aim and squeezed off another shot. The bullet blew by the robber’s head. Just where he wanted it.

  The robber jumped. He turned. He saw Connor.

  The woman turned, too. Her gaze met his. Connor hadn’t meant to look at her, hadn’t wanted to break his concentration. But it was too late.

  Big blue eyes bored into him. Now he saw her fear, the terror etched in the tight line of her mouth and in the furrow of her brow. It arrowed through him, overwhelmed him, held him captive for a few seconds.

  A few seconds too many.

  The barrel of the robber’s gun swung toward Connor, aiming square at his chest. The hammer clicked back.

  Connor fired first.

  The bullet impacted the robber’s shoulder. Blood jetted out, splashing the woman’s cheek, her neck, her shawl. The robber fell backward. His gun fired into the air as he hit the boardwalk with a thud.

  The woman spun away into the street, staring down at the robber, who was writhing in pain. The sheriff ran forward. A man came out of the bank and kicked the robber’s pistol away.

  Behind Connor, the folks inside the cafe rushed out, craning their necks. Shop doors all along the street opened. The sheriff shouted orders.

  Slowly, Connor holstered his Colt, only vaguely aware of the crush of people around him slapping his back, asking questions. He watched the woman. The pretty young woman who’d had a gun to her head and not flinched once.

  Blood oozed down her fine porcelain cheek, spotted the collar of her white blouse and spread in dark streaks over her pink shawl. Townsfolk gathered around her, talking in low voices, touching her arm, her shoulder. She stood straight and tall, not needing their sympathy, it seemed.

  But they hadn’t seen into her eyes, as Connor had. They didn’t know what she felt, as he knew.

  Connor took a step toward her. He needed to get closer. Needed to make sure she was all right. Needed to—

  She whirled, wrestling away from the well-intentioned townsfolk, and yanked the shawl from her shoulders. Horrified, she stared at it, then searched the crowd until she spotted Connor.

  He stopped cold in his tracks.

  The crowd parted as the woman batted her way toward him.

  “You!” She stopped in front of Connor and waved her shawl. “Look what you’ve done!”

  Stunned, Connor just stared, conscious of the people crowding around them both.

  “You’ve ruined it! You’ve ruined my shawl! You horrid, thoughtless man!”

  Connor shrugged. “Look, lady, I—”

  “Oh!” She drew back her fist and drove it into his stomach.

  A little woof slipped through his lips as h
e leaned forward slightly, pressing his palm to his belly.

  He drew himself up straight, glared down at her and lifted one eyebrow. “You’re welcome.”

  She burst into tears.

  ***

  They weren’t little tears. They were the kind of tears men hated. Big, gut-wrenching sobs. The ones nothing could be done about. The kind that just had to run their course. And in the meantime, all a man could do was stand there feeling stupid and useless.

  Connor hated it when women cried.

  Usually.

  His gut tightened and started aching.

  “Lady, I didn’t mean to...”

  Words failed him. Connor pulled on his neck. What could he say, anyway? He didn’t even know what the devil was wrong with her.

  Three women with big hats and bigger hips bumped him aside and surrounded the woman, sheltering her, clucking sympathetically. He should have been glad, but somehow it bothered him.

  A path opened in the crowd and Sheriff Parker waded through. Tall and thin, he wore a mustache and a sour face.

  “You do this, mister?” he asked Connor, squinting and nodding toward the bank.

  Over the heads of the crowd Connor saw a half-dozen men helping the wounded robbers to their feet, herding them down the street.

  “Sure did,” one of the men from the Cattleman Cafe said. He slapped Connor’s back. “Finest shooting I’ve seen in these here parts, that’s for dang sure.”

  “Took care of the whole gang,” another man said. “Single-handed.”

  “The man’s a hero,” the cafe owner declared, her voice shrilling above the others.

  Heads nodded and praise echoed through the crowd.

  “You’ve got this all wrong,” Connor said, and waved his hands. “I’m no—”

  “Sure you are!” She gave Connor a solid whack on the arm. “You come on back to the Cattleman anytime and have yourself any meal you want. On the house.”

  The sheriff eyed Connor for a long moment, apparently not happy with what had gone on in the streets of his town.

  A man stepped forward and the crowd went silent. Tall and muscular, with a square jaw and big shoulders, he was probably around thirty years old, Connor guessed. A man who worked hard for a living.